In the Name of ST. GULIK, Remember! In the Name of CASH MONEY, Remember! In the Name of RICHARD NIXON, Remember! When on High the Heavens had not been named, The Earth had not been named, And Naught existed but the Seas of FAIL, The Original Gangsta, And FAT BLACK WOMAN, the Original Gangsta Who bore them all,

I just saw this and it cheered up a blah afternoon. Love the riffing off of the Simon Necronomicon.

How did I miss this the first time around?

Logged

“I’m guessing it was January 2007, a meeting in Bethesda, we got a bag of bees and just started smashing them on the desk,” Charles Wick said. “It was very complicated.”

He’s pretty much the godfather of macabre sci-fi. Cult of Cthulhu and all that jazz…Yeah well you see, his hometown is right here in the Renaissance City, Providence.

He saw things here that inspired him, if not terrified him, which is probably also why Edgar Allan Poe also spent a considerable amount of time on the hill as well. The city itself is possessed by a darkness and an insanity that only outsiders to it can truly see. Our good friend Howard Phillips Lovecraft was one of these outsiders.

We have an old asylum here in Providence called Butler Hospital, and there’s a saying among the locals, “You know you live in Rhode Island when you or someone you know has been to Butler”. Even Lovecraft’s parents both spent time there. It’s a creepy old place too, and word has it they still do shock therapy and labotomies…much like it did 150 years ago when it was full to the brim with the local psychos.

There’s a lot of them here, Jim, psychos that is. They walk or stumble down the broken cobblestones Downcity and talk to themselves, muttering in archaic tongues that may or may not belong to that of the Elder Gods. For anyone who lives in one of the large Northeastern cities, this isn’t terribly anything new, but at the same time, it’s…different. They aren’t the same. The looks on their faces, the glazing of their eyes, the stench of their hair gel and Dominican cigars as they wander the streets.

What did Lovecraft know? What did he see that others of his time in dingy Edwardian Providence didn’t?

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.”

I see it. The ignorance of which he speaks…everyday. Am I doomed to also be eaten alive by the insanity that grasps Providence? The impoverished and debt-ridden capital of the smallest state in America? Or will I triumph as he did, only to live the last year of his life in extreme pain, and alone? In my dingy Edwardian Providence home…

Of all the Muppets that got a load of shit out of Sesame Street, I always felt the worst about the Yippers. You know, the “Aliens”? We were never certain ourselves. Jim would take these trips now and then, just bum around the world for a month or two between seasons. He’d meet different Muppet or Monster populations, talk with then, learn about them, and maybe have a few back. That’s how there got to be so many Sesame Street variants; he did his PR, and set it all up. Not like franchises, more like making the entertainment and message local and native.

So anyways, one year he comes back and he’s got these guys with him. Never said where they were from. Of course theories abounded. Actual aliens was the most popular, although the possibility of a tribe of forgotten and de – socialized mutant Muppets from outside Chernobyl was compelling. Centralia in PA or some deep jungle got credit too. Jim just never said, and would sort of smile and dodge any questions. He loved that sort of game. Like any good teacher, he wanted to see us figure it out ourselves.

The Yippers (Mike, who ran the boom mic dubbed them), were odd, but really great once you got used to them. They were true “Antropologists from Mars”. Everything was new and different to them. They were innocent, well meaning, boundlessly curious, but never quite naïve. They loved Jim too, and would follow him around whenever he was on site. Otherwise they’d just mill about. We never saw them sleep, and never got a good idea for how many there were, even. Jim would take a stroll about an hour before any scene they were going to do, and would gather two or three, bring them to the set, show them an object, and let them do their thing. They’d go over it, talk about it back and forth, have some fun and go on. Never did any harms to it, just studied, inquisitive as children, but harmless as Buddhist monks.

They did hit some bumps though. Jim (no one else could really get through to them), had to designate a few areas off limits. Like the bathrooms. They floated in on a gaffer whacking off once. It was “Yip yip yip yipy FAPFAPFAP, WWWAAAAAAHHH! Uh-huh, uh-huh” for a week. They got on some people’s nerves. Otherwise, most of us loved them. Not like you love a pet cat or a child, since neither have a cold alien intellect (possibly far surpassing your own) behind their behavior. If you had the time for them, and would take a minute or two to interact, play or share some food, it was like you got to share their joy and interest in discovering anything, and the fascination of everything being new. It really made you see things for what they were. They had great fun doing this, you could tell. They’d be a bit more animated and lean against you a bit like a cat before floating on.

After Jim’s death, the new producers had a world of trouble with them. Jim had no contracts for a lot of the Muppets. He’d just fudged them all in on the books, but always did right by them. Like Cookie, the Yippers all had trusts set up, continually being reinvested and contributed to. The producers expected them to sign proper papers, fill out schedules, follow scripts, and none of that worked for them. Honoring a paper or a clock was outside their way of doing things. The producers, predictably enough, had lawyers throw papers at them (Literally, a sad fact of Muppet / Monster inequality is that anyone without hands CAN be served papers by throwing.), and they stopped the trust fund contributions. They tried to herd them off the lot, but that was fruitless. Trying to touch one of the Yippers against their will is like trying to grab a towel with a black belt in Aikido.

Jim’s lawyer, who was executing his will, came down to the studio once he got official documentation of the trust fund cutoff. I stopped and talked with him quickly, but he had a package. Wouldn’t say much, except to say he couldn’t say much, it was one of Jim’s instructions, but I could come along and watch. He walked around a bit, and in the same way Jim did, found a few of the Yippers. He just mentioned Jim’s name and motioned them on. Once he had three of them, he put down the package for them and took out a book. It was a compilation about Gandhi and his methods on nonviolent resistance. There was a quick note in the front, to the Yippers from Jim too. They all read it, gave a sort of exaggerated mournful “AAAwwwwwwww…”, and floated off, the book levitating cleanly between them. The lawyer and I went for coffee, and he seemed rather satisfied with how things went.

The next few days on the lot were chaos. The Yippers, for the first time, had taken up action against something. They floated in front of cameras, trucks, and any moving equipment. They blocked doorways, occupied sinks, and unplugged power cables. They never did anything harm, or hurt anyone (no safety equipment was EVER compromised, as much as they could have.). Overnight they had become a cross between the perfect pranksters, and peace guerillas (as weird as that sounds). A letter had been sent to the producers too, and they got so hot under the collar about it everyone knew. Jim was holding them hostage from beyond the grave they said, and got their own lawyers on it. There was no evidence though, (the book and Jim’s note was gone, never to resurface). Jim’s lawyer never said anything direct, and refused to reveal any details from the will, but suggested strongly that Jim’s wishes about the Yippers be honored. The producers had nothing to say to it.

Two night later they closed the lot. Just being able to close the lot was a small miracle, things go on their all day, and lots of the Muppets nearly live there. You can never really empty it, but they came close. It was sealed off at 5PM, under the excuse of sewer work. Harry Monster and I were going home after stopping at a bar when we cut past the studio lot to save time. It was really late, but we were both half curious about things. I was about to turn out of a side road onto the road in front when Harry Just about screamed “STOP” at me and turned off my headlights in a flash of movement. I was about to ask him what his big problem was, and just saw him pointing.

A black van, no plates, pulled up to one side of the lot, and about 10 people, all wearing black piled out. A few entered the building, and a few started doing a low jog down the outside perimeter. They’d pause, every so often, and poke around. Once, a figure, like a dangling towel approached them. We just saw a dull pop of light, and could almost hear the “Thwip Thwip” of a silenced pistol in our heads. It was a text book “cleaning” service, and another unmarked black van collected them all at the opposite side of the lot.

The Yippers just weren’t there the next day. I tried asking around quietly, but only got stony silence and sad looks. Veggie monster was having a really bad day, he could hardly speak and was only howling sobs when he could. Pretty apparent that asking was not a long term survival move.

Harry and I let Jim’s lawyer know. He just got shook his head and poured us all scotch. What the hell were we going to do? Not much to be sure. Harry had one upside to it though. Might have been the beers he said, but he did see something floating off towards the sky that night. Maybe just a trash bag, but flying trash don’t move against the prevailing wind, or carry a book with it.

As an aside, I saw Kermit at the Smithsonian this weekend. Lifeless in a glass booth. Kids 12 years old or so walked up to him and said "cool, look, it's that lizard guy" as they sauntered up to him. I couldn't help but think they might even be confusing him with that smarmy Geico fuckwad. I stared forward until my eyes stung and onlookers thought me particularly moved by Fonzie's jacket, which I was, but not to that extent.

Snuffleupagus (He insisted on being called “Snuffy”), was one of the few who may have got a positive change out of Sesame street going downhill. At the start, he was another child actor with too much stardom, just like Big Bird. He and Bird started together. They got into trouble together, and did all the bad shit together. Bird would go off about his parts being so immature, Snuffy would counter bitch about being imaginary, they’d blow lines of Ajax in the trailer and smash up the makeup room. They were physically huge, which didn’t help. Only Harry Monster (who considered tearing cars in half a parlor trick) could get them under control, but even he had trouble with the shear bulk. “Never wrestle an elephant.” He said on day, after pulling a back muscle trying to grapple Snuffy out of a tree unharmed. Jim tried to check them, and would have ditched them entirely, but they were important roles. So he had to try to work the massive brats along. He managed, though, keeping their drugging, huffing, and candy intake minimal, and putting them in their place when needed. His tirade at Bird (“What else do you have outside of show biz?”) was legendary for cowing that yellow fuck. When Jim passed, the restriction he did get in place came right off.

The producers, with their distinct and VERY Hollywood lack of care for their people, let whatever they wanted fly. Drugs, candy, cleaning product, monster prostitutes, it would all flow in abundance, just be ready to do your scene. Bird went from bad to worse in a hurry. Imagine you have a textbook alcoholic, give him a swimming pool of gin, and challenge him to try the deep end. Bird jumped for it. Came on set one day with his beek covered in rubber bands trying to emulate Johnny Depp. (Only he used industrial bands that he couldn’t get off. He panicked, and ran around like a chicken with it’s head cut off until Mike (who ran the boom mic), got sick of the show and poleaxed him long enough for Maria to cut off the bands. (No one ever knew how quick she was with a knife before, or that she always had one.)

Snuffy was bad too, at first, but wizened up after “the” accident, as it came to be called. He wrapped his Ferrari around an art fixture outside corporate on the way to see a club Bert had recommended. Don’t ask how he even got into the Ferrari. It was custom, but even then it still didn’t quite make sense. You had to see it.

Anyways, when it happened, he was out of his head. He’d snorted pixie sticks and mixed PCP with aerosol starter fluid before heading out. He sat, in the tangled wreck for two hours; his trip going really bad with the leering face of a modern art gazing down on him, while firemen with the Jaws of Life just about went mad figuring the whole scene out. That was dose of reality, part 1.

The day he was out of the hospital Bird was all hyped up, ready to throw a rager for his return. Then the tech called him for sound check. “Fuck you, my buddy’s BACK!” were the last words out of Bird’s beak.

…as it fell right off of his face.

The years of snorting bleach cleaner and god knows what else had completely undermined his rounded yellow protrusion. Bird was really shaken by that, and then just about killed himself during recovery. You knew he was diabetic, right? The candy the producers kept pumping to him was bound to catch up. It was sick, his right leg, all red and purple banded to begin with, blew up like a balloon.

That, reality part 2, turned Snuffy around. He dropped the garbage and started living clean. Saw doctors and made sure he was OK. Thankfully, he had the constitution of, well, a mammoth, so he came back to health easily. He did a few PSA’s too. Sincere ones, compared to some of the “I’ll do this to avoid a fine or jail” tripe you see from celebrities. He donated to the Monster Equality Movement, Muppet Defense League, and a few other places. Eventually became one of their spokes-monsters, and job offers as one of their directors if he ever quit Sesame Street. He was a great public speaker too. Calm and unflappable, like a laconic monk. He’d still get riled up now and then, like when he trunk slapped a PETA protestor who said he was an exploited animal once. That made front page news. President Obama got caught twittering “bitch didn’t see that coming”, and the media had a hilarious field day.

He never noticed so much the series or the others going downhill. It was just a stop on is rounds, do his scenes and take off to his next appointment. He and Bird had words awhile after Bird got his beak reconstructed. Snuffy just couldn’t accept that he was killing himself and tried to clue him in. Bird called him a pussy and stormed off. They didn’t talk off-set after that. His oldest friend on the show gone, he only drifted farther.

Who could blame him? He had work, a cause and a social scene dealing with issues bigger than Sesame Street.

He did clue in to some of the bad stuff, but was never able to connect his own work and status with a fix for the cast. Sort of like how psychologists can never figure out their own family, they’re just too close sometimes. “I can get help, and introduce you to people who can help.” He’d tell the folks he did see having problems, “but you have to want this to change.” The others weren’t dumb either. Some of the actors or producers dirty secrets coming to light might end the show. For some of the Muppets or Monsters, it was a job beyond belief, too good to give up or threaten.

Maybe Snuffy just got numb to it after awhile, or maybe he’d traded the drug highs for VIP activist highs. Last I heard he was prepping a presentation for the UN on Monster Rights, doing a tour of Southeast Asia factories to document abuses, and meeting Vladmir Putin backstage with Bono at a U2 concert.

Today I found out that a really good friend of mine, if not one of my best friends from high school, has died. Not just died, but killed himself for reasons unknown. This happened on June 22nd. Today’s date: July 8th.

No one called me. No one shot me an email or a text message. No. I found out, 2 weeks later, via Facebook, while I noticed another one of my friends wishing him a post-mortem happy birthday.

It’s finally happened, Jim. Humans have lost their drive to communicate normally thanks to good ol’ Web 2.0. Somehow, it was “assumed” that I knew because of Facebook, a website I will openly admit to checking frequently, but not religiously. I don’t have the time nor the energy to keep up with it, and I don’t have an occupation that allows me to sit on my ass, gaining my well-fed American™ secretary spread and surf the web for hours on end, no, I chose to work in a profession that allows me to have social interaction with other primates of my species, which seems to be turning into a forgotten art.

Why did we, as a [debatable] intelligent race, allow ourselves to become hidden behind twenty inches of liquid crystal and a keyboard, and assume that this is okay?